From Nairobi Matatus to Jiangmen Temples
Catching up on what’s happening back home—and the reactions to the hike in matatu fares—took me way back to 2018, when I was exposed to matatus in a completely different way. After years of using them like every other Kenyan, I suddenly had to study the matatu business. It was one of my client’s biggest target markets in their bid to win a contract to open a Kenyan factory that would allow for final mixing before sales to clients in the East African region.
At the time, my world was basketballs, whistles, sponsorship proposals, and the sharp crack of vinyl banners stretched across stadium rails. So when the client asked, “Can you help us secure a deal for car-refurbishing paint and distribution?” I said yes—and then quietly told myself the truth: I know sports, not paint.
Those five words became both armour and confession. I would show up, learn fast, and figure it out on the go.
Matatus, music, and murals on wheels
Before China, I needed to understand what this paint really meant at home. Where would it end up? Who would it serve? My mind went straight to Kenya’s matatus.
Those kaleidoscopic buses that roar through Nairobi like moving art galleries—rowdy drivers at the wheel, passengers vibing to booming speakers. Matatus are not just transport; they’re culture on wheels. Their paint jobs tell stories: political punchlines, sports loyalties, cartoon heroes, hip-hop legends. They make the city pulse in colour and, in their noisy way, gave Kenyan music its wings. Many local artists found fame because their songs were played, rewound, and replayed on those routes.
It struck me that this was one of the most Kenyan things I knew—art, lifestyle, and chaos braided into a single ride. And there I was, about to go to China to understand the paint that powered that expression.
Jiangmen: when the factory becomes a classroom
My classroom turned out to be Jiangmen, an industrial town in Guangdong Province where black faces are rare and curiosity is loud, even when unspoken. On the streets and on the factory floor, I felt eyes linger a little longer. It was a reminder that I was far from home—and exactly where I needed to be.
In China, business isn’t sealed in boardrooms; it’s lived. I spent days inside vast warehouses and on the factory line, working alongside technicians to understand how the paint truly worked. We stirred pigments, watched shades shift, checked coverage, layered base coat, colour, clear coat, then waited. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t the adrenaline rush of sports.
It was patience.
Stirring, waiting, layering, checking, re-mixing. Like watching an artist refuse to rush a canvas.
Somewhere between the hardener and the clear coat, I felt something in me slow down. Sports had taught me pace, urgency, reaction. Paint was teaching me maturity, precision, patience—the art of letting a colour bloom in its own time. Each mix felt like a small meditation, a way of catching my breath after years of sprinting.
The side stories that stay with you
The trip, of course, had its comic detours.
It began with a nearly tragic love affair—with FIFA. During a layover at Oman Airport, I stumbled upon an EA Sports FIFA booth. Within minutes, I was dribbling, tackling, and celebrating goals like a freshly signed Barcelona forward. The entire airport melted away—until a voice boomed over the PA, calling my name. I dashed to the gate, out of breath, still half-celebrating my virtual victory. Imagine missing a flight to China because of video-game football.
In Jiangmen, the shocks kept coming. At the factory, after lunch, a bell rang—not for another shift, but for nap time. A full hour of rest was mandatory. On the first day, I thought, “Not me, I’m built for endurance.” By mid-afternoon, with the summer heat pressing down like a heavy blanket, my body protested. My eyes closed without permission. The next day, I folded right into that nap culture and discovered how restorative surrender can be.
Evenings became my window into the city. Jiangmen’s streets came alive after dark, lanterns swinging above sizzling food stalls, the air thick with spice and smoke. I tasted everything—from skewered meats to sweet rice cakes—and found flavours that jolted me awake with surprise. And because the Kenyan in me refuses to travel without finding music, I went looking for nightlife. There was laughter, rhythm, and beats that reminded me that joy doesn’t need translation.
On one off day, I hiked up Dayan Mountain. It was gruelling. The trail tested me the way few things had outside sport. More than once, I thought of turning back—legs protesting, breath shallow. But step by step, I pressed on until I reached the peak. The view stretched endlessly, and in that quiet, broken only by rustling trees and distant temple bells, I felt both the exhaustion and the reward of patience.
The temples themselves felt like walking into a childhood memory. My brother Elvis and I grew up on kung-fu films; those intricate rooftops and dragon carvings were the backdrop of our make-believe. Standing there as an adult, in real humidity and real time, felt like slipping into a dream I didn’t know I’d been carrying.
Bridging two worlds
By the end of that trip, I saw that both fields—sports and paint—were really about expression.
One uses jerseys, chants, and stadium roars. The other uses colour, gloss, and grit on the side of a matatu. Both reach people. Both tell stories. Both create belonging.
Our Kenyan client—fluent in Mandarin and a true team player—helped us navigate negotiations so smoothly that we didn’t just get the deal. We got a better one. The business objective was met: distribution secured, relationships strengthened.
But I came home with more than a signed agreement.
Now, I still find myself pausing whenever I see a boldly painted bus or wall mural. China gave me a new respect for patience, a rekindled sense of childlike wonder, and a deeper understanding that culture—whether on a matatu in Nairobi, a temple in Jiangmen, or a mural in Rabat—will always find a way to express itself. Reminding me that purpose can wear many coats. Sometimes matte. Sometimes metallic. Sometimes priced a little too high, but still undeniably, stubbornly alive.
Leave a Reply